For Eiri
by volta arovet
Summary: Tohma gives his account of what happened in New York six years ago. There are some things that Eiri still doesn't know. Spoilers for the series


**For Eiri**

_by volta arovet_

This is my first Gravitation story, my first present-tense story, and my first story written in the first point of view. Be warned that there are spoilers for Yuki's and Tohma's pasts. I'm working off of anime continuity, so the events might differ from what was said in the manga (which I haven't read). I also have a big Episode 12-shaped hole in my collection of episodes, so there might be some discrepancies with that. If you're a stickler for continuity, just call this an AU and read it like that. I'm reinterpreting the events, anyway. Maki Murakami owns the characters and plot, I just own this narration.

**For Eiri**

_by volta arovet_

I am well aware of how silly I must look, toting along this brightly colored backpack like a schoolchild. Actually, because of my youthful face, most people probably mistake me for a somewhat tall schoolchild. I have no problems with looking adorable—for the most part, I'm able to use that to my advantage. But being childish? All the endearing smiles and subtle manipulations in the world won't make Nittle Grasper a success if no one will take me seriously.

And so, here I am, sacrificing a good portion of my dignity at the request of the only person to whom I would ever grant such a request: Eiri Uesugi. When I reached my apartment and listened to his adorably sheepish phone message asking if _I would please bring his backpack over to Sensei's apartment because he had forgotten it at my place and thank you so much Tohma!_ I was already turned around and out the door, backpack in hand. I think that, subconsciously at least, Eiri realizes that I am wrapped around his finger, all the way from his dirt-smudged knuckle to the tip of his closely bitten nail.

For some strange reason, I don't mind at all.

Not that I've deluded myself as to where his affections lie. In an effort to relate to him, I've read all the books he's claimed as his 'favorites.' The vast majority of them include a young, naïve schoolchild who becomes involved with an older, more worldly person. It's embarrassingly obvious how Eiri feels about Yuki. By the fact that his favorite character is never the 'friendly, protective, older-brother type'…well, it is equally obvious what place I have in his heart. None of this dissuades me from running when he calls me.

I reach the door to Yuki's apartment. It's locked. How strange, but I suppose it's normal to be overly cautious when one lives in New York City. I knock, but no one answers. This is very strange. Feeling like a burglar from one of Eiri's silly detective novels, I use my key to enter the apartment. The shades are drawn, and although it is still bright enough to see by, it's certainly not comfortable to be in such a dimly lit room. I walk inside and truly feel like a burglar. Neither of them are here.

"Eiri? Yuki? Are you in here?" I call out while turning on the lights. The room immediately becomes more inviting, if no less empty. "Hello?" I call out again, if only to break the silence and convince myself that I'm not trespassing.

I wander about the apartment, idly looking for a note one of them might have left to tell me where they went. Inside the small kitchen there is no note on the refrigerator or table, but there is half a pot of coffee that smells absolutely wonderful. I pour myself a mug full, if only to give myself a reason to loiter for a few more minutes. It's bitter and strong and just what I needed. I drop the backpack on the table.

On the counter is a bottle of scotch, half empty. This bothers me. I know for a fact that as of last night this bottle was unopened. I should make it a point to speak with Yuki about his drinking habits, but I've been so busy recently…

The telephone rings. I'm halfway to picking it up before I remember that it's not my home. I let the answering machine take the message. It's some English-speaking man. I ignore it and take another sip of my coffee, but something catches my ear. The man laughs roughly.

"…hope the kid's still tight after the two of us."

My blood runs cold. I always thought that was a particularly inane metaphor, overused in the childish novels Eiri loves to read. Now it seems all too accurate. My limbs freeze as my mind fills in all that the man's phrase implies, and I plead that my conclusions are wrong. Please, please let me be wrong.

"Anyways, my buddy was wondrin' if you found his gun anywheres. He thinks he mighta dropped it while he was, heheh, 'busy.' It's not registered, so no worries if you can't find it, but he'd still like it back if you can manage it. There'll be another ten dollar tip for your bein' so cooperative. Yeah, that's about it. Call me when you get in. Sounds like you're still havin' fun—"

I race to the phone. Pick it up. I have to sound confident. I'm scared out of my mind. Please, let me remember all the English I've learned. Let me sound calm. Let it be some other kid he's talking about, not Eiri, please, not Eiri. Let this all just be some horrible nightmare.

I speak.

"Hello?"

The voice on the other end is suspicious. "Yuki? That you?"

Please, please, let me sound casual.

"No, I'm a friend of Yuki's." With ever fiber in me, I hate saying that. "He's busy tonight. Would you like me to pick up your gun for you?" That was good. My voice was clear, smooth, not overly polite or subtly desperate—never mind the fact that my legs are shaking so badly that I've nearly collapsed onto the floor.

"Yeah, sounds good, I guess," the voice on the other end of the line agrees, if still a bit suspiciously.

"What's the address of the place you were at?" I scramble around frantically for a pen and paper. Making him repeat something will make him more suspicious, and too much suspicion could cost Eiri his…I don't want to think about what it could cost Eiri.

"You don't know?" The voice on the other end of the line is now more than suspicious. I have to think quickly.

Somehow, I force myself to laugh. "You think this is the first time he's done something like this? He has places all over the city. Do you want to make me search all of them?" I make my voice sound like I'm pouting on that last sentence. Being cute has helped me set people at ease in the past. Please let it work this time. Please, please, please, please…

"Awright. Lessee, it was that place on South Street, across from the McDonald's. F'get the number. That good enough?"

I hang up the phone. I can't talk to him anymore.

South Street—that's a twenty minute walk or a five minute drive. I hail a taxi. One pulls up. The driver is smiling. There are purple fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. For some reason, this annoys me immensely.

"Where to?" the driver asks. I can tell that his voice is accented, but he's definitely not Japanese. I have this strange, intense feeling that I am alone in the world.

"South Street. McDonald's. I'll pay you double if you can get me there in under five minutes." My words are swift, terse. The faster I speak, the sooner he'll move, the quicker I'll reach Eiri, and…

And then what? By this point, the damage has been done. I can't prevent something that's in the past. All I can do now is simply…damage control. I feel so impotent. Right now, I can't even do damage control. All I can do is sit and wait. I never thought that rushing to someone's rescue could be so sedentary. I watch the city buildings pass by, infuriatingly slowly, feeling the adrenaline lessen. With each passing moment, I feel more and more helpless. This is all my fault. Everything is my fault.

Why didn't I prevent this from happening? All the signs were there. If I hadn't been so busy with work, if I had simply opened my eyes and _looked_, all this could have been prevented.

I can feel the scream building in the back of my throat. My neck strains with the effort to restrain it, to keep some semblance of self-control, but I know that in a few seconds I will lose that battle and—

The taxi stop. "Why aren't we moving?" That was my voice. It sounds dead. Where did my primal scream vanish to? Why am I rushing? It's over. The man on the telephone's cold laughter told me that. What can I do that's anything more than petty damage control? What could I possibly do to help Eiri?

The gun.

I remember the gun, and I'm rushing out the door, throwing more than enough money at the driver. I didn't even allow him to finish his explanation about the traffic delays due to construction work. All of my thoughts are centered on one thing:

The gun.

How could I have forgotten the gun? What's what alerted me to this situation in the first place! The gun could still be where they are, or Kitazawa could have brought his own, and Eiri is—oh, Eiri! Eiri is more than a victim. He's a witness.

My feet pound the pavement. Each thud vibrates in the back of my teeth. The sun beats mercilessly on my back. My neck is sticky with sweat. All I can do is just plead with whoever listens to these kind of requests. Please, let Eiri be alive. Physical trauma, mental trauma, these things heal with time, and I've already vowed to do everything in my power to help Eiri heal. But, death? There's nothing I could do to heal that, and the thought frightens me to the marrow of my bones.

Let me reach him in time. I will be his human shield, and gladly. Just, please let him be alive.

I reach the area of the city I've been looking for and give a brief thanks for easily-recognizable landmarks. I run towards the seemingly abandoned building. There are several floors. Which one—

A gunshot.

Just one.

The _crack_ pierces my heart.

Somehow, my feet continue to move, dash up the fire escape, running faster than I was before, instinctively going towards the source of the noise—the third floor.

I throw open the door, prepared to attack Kitazawa with my bare hands.

I stop.

Eiri is very much alive, but Kitazawa…

The gun drops from Eiri's hands.

I speak his name.

My voice breaks whatever spell has frozen him. He turns to me, tries to say something, but all that comes out is a strangled, keening wail.

He's in my arms. Strange, I don't remember moving across the room. I don't know when I gathered him to me, but I'll be damned if I let him go. He's shuddering, convulsing. I hold him tighter.

The stench of blood and sweat, alcohol and cigarettes, musk and…things I don't want to think about overpowers me. I'm so weak, I bury my face in Eiri's matted hair. Its scent has remained constant, reminding me of soap and sweat, of dirt and bubblegum, of childhood and harder times: uniquely Eiri.

I notice that I've been vocalizing my thoughts, the constant, superficial phrases running through my mind, higher and faster than this detached narration.

Oh Eiri, I'm sorry. "I'm sorry." It's my fault. "It's not your fault." Don't blame yourself. "I'm the one to blame." I'm sorry. "I'm sorry." I'm sorry.

His shaking subsides, thankfully. We sit together, still holding onto each other. Under other circumstances, this would be nice. The panic has subsided. Things are clearer now. I can consciously feel the damp patch on my shirt, a remnant of Eiri's tears. I can see the edges of the pool of blood start to coagulate, changing to a darker shade of red. I can see Kitazawa…

Dear God.

Kitazawa is still alive.

I watch in rapt fascination. His chest rises slightly, then falls. Rises. Falls. It's too real. It can't be my imagination.

Gently, I separate myself from Eiri. He looks at me, tears magnifying his amber eyes, face gaunt, lips bruised. I have the strong urge to capture those lips with mine, to kiss the pain away, to suck all the poison and bile into myself until all he can taste is sweetness. I feel compelled to show him that a kiss doesn't have to involve pain.

In the same instant, I know that I will never close that particular gap between us. I would never allow our relationship to cross that boundary, would never presume to offer that sort of comfort.

Kitazawa is still breathing. I must work quickly, before Eiri realizes that fact. I hold his head in my hands, brush my thumbs across the tracts of tears, force him to look me in the eye. "Eiri, I need you to do something for me." Before he panics, I continue. "I would like you to step outside for a time. I have to clean up a few things here, so we will be safe. Then I'll come out to join you, and we can go home, together. Can you do that for me? Can you stay outside by yourself?"

I can see that he doesn't really comprehend, but a few words are sinking in. He doesn't answer me, but he doesn't resist as I coax him onto his feet and usher him towards the door. I sit him on the rail, in the shadows. It wouldn't do for someone to see him, and it worries me to leave him by himself, but I can't let him witness what I'm about to do.

I allow myself the weakness of kissing his hair, just once. His scent fills me, gives me strength. For Eiri. I must do this, for Eiri.

Kitazawa's breathing is becoming louder. A sickening, gurgling noise accompanies each breath. The gunshot must have missed his heart, but pierced his lung. Without medical treatment, he will die soon, drowned by his own blood. A perverse part of me wishes I could watch that, wishes I could witness each moment of his slow, painful death. For all his did to Eiri. For all he took from Eiri.

But, no. He might regain consciousness, he might think of a way of telling what happened, and I can't allow that to occur.

Carefully, carefully, I step around the puddle of blood. It would do me no good to leave my own bloody footprints for the police to find. I check for my handkerchief in my pocket—no good leaving fingerprints, either.

I place my hand over his mouth.

I lower it.

I stop, mere millimeters from his lips.

I can't do it.

He looks so pathetic, so small and broken. I try to dredge up all the anger, all the fear, all the pain I've felt this day, but I come up empty. I am drained. I am numb. And I don't know how to kill.

It seems simple enough, doesn't it? Just stop the breathing and his body will shut down. It's so…clinical. Clean. He probably won't feel a thing, just drift off…

I fold my hands in front of my face, thumbs pressed into my closed eyelids until bright patterns of white flash before my eyes. It probably looks like I'm praying. Maybe I am. It feels like I've been pleading with someone all afternoon, someone who won't grant my smallest request. All I need now is to find the strength, someone where inside me…

"Tohma…" a raspy voice breaks the silence. He's awake. "Tohma, help me…"

I lower my hands. As my eyes adjust, I can see that Kitazawa is looking at me. His eyes are glassy; they look almost silver. He's probably in shock. I make my face as sweet and reassuring as possible. I'm good at that. "Yuki," I say in my most comforting tones, "what happened?"

"…shot me," he rasps.

I cock my head to the side. "What was that?"

"Someone shot me," he says, a little louder. "Please, Tohma…"

"Shhh…" I murmur softly. I can't allow his words to reach Eiri. "Don't strain yourself. Who shot you?"

"Please…"

"I was in your apartment this afternoon." I'm almost conversational. "Your phone rang. Some person left a message saying his friend had dropped his gun. Can you tell me who he was?"

He tells me. I don't think he's fully aware of what he's saying. I ask him to spell the name for me, and he does, slowly. He punctuates each sentence with a "Please, Tohma…" It's becoming irritating.

"And the other man who was here," I prompt. "What is his name?" The shock is wearing off. He's becoming more aware of what I'm asking him.

"Don't know," he mumbles.

"Interesting name," I muse sarcastically. "Is it Italian?"

My joking has frightened him, poor baby. His eyes are less glassy and more conscious of the fact that I've yet to make any effort to help him. "Tohma?"

"Did he taste sweet?" I ask sharply. He blinks at my non sequitur. "When you took him, did Eiri feel good?"

We both know he can't back away without further hurting himself. He tries to, anyway, but he can't move more than one centimeter. Pathetic.

"I only ask," I continue, "because I want to know if it was worth his pain."

"I didn't…" he chokes out. Strange, I actually believe him.

"How sad. Then you won't have that memory of pleasure to comfort you in your last seconds." I lower my hand over his mouth. This seemed so difficult to do only two minutes ago. Now it seems like the most natural thing in the world.

"Don't! For Eiri!" he pleads. My hand hesitates for a moment. "Eiri…shot me. He thinks…he's a murderer. He'll always…think that. If you…kill me…he'll know he…made you a…murderer too. He couldn't…live…with that. For Eiri…don't." Specks of blood stain his teeth. A small spatter of red hits my hand.

"It's true what you say. But you forget that Eiri doesn't have to know." I cover his mouth and nose with my hand. He tries to say something—an apology, or perhaps a goodbye? A final curse? No matter, my hand holds fast. "No last words," I instruct him. He doesn't give any more than a token struggle. In less than a minute, he is gone.

I efficiently remove all evidence of Eiri and myself. The untraceable gun I pocket, thinking of the name Kitazawa gave me. I haven't decided what to do about him yet, but I doubt he'll come forward to the police. The foreign taxi driver probably remembers me as a typical blond American, so I doubt I'll be recognized there. I'll have to erase the phone message on Kitazawa's answering machine—or better yet, I could record a new message over it, to give us a tighter alibi. Eiri will need to be coached with the proper story as to where we were. He will also need to see a doctor. I know a discreet one who is willing to make house calls.

There are so many details to take care of, so many little threads I must weave into a flawless blanket to cover the ugly truth. And I have more tasks in my life, thousands more little details to weave into a different blanket, one I'll make for Eiri, to wrap him in so I can shelter him from anything that dares try to hurt him. From this moment, I vow to be the sole keeper of my painful secret. From now on, Eiri will live a charmed life.

Deciding this, I make one final sweep of the room, then leave to take care of the child who holds my life in the palm of his bruised hands.


End file.
